Fool Me Once
by Nyx6
Summary: John’s been struggling with the idea of letting Dean go solo, that is until a deadly encounter with a new enemy leaves him with no choice but to send his son in alone. Bobby’s along for the ride too - although he's not exactly happy about it!
1. Chapter 1

This is kind of an interesting one for me. Visually - in my head that is - this idea works out fine, in print well, I'm not so sure but since nobody else has a window to my mind (not a bad thing in all honesty) this will have to do!

It's set before the series and based on the fact that Sam sounds surprised to hear Dean's been hunting alone when he turns up in the pilot. No, Sam's not in it but I'm already writing my next story and I've got to say I've definitely missed him. Bobby takes Sam's place in compensation and I hope his absence isn't a complete turn-off!

Finally, when I say 'new' enemy in the summary I mean new to John and Bobby at this point - to us he/they (it's up to you which you prefer) are well introduced! So without further ado, on with the first installment...

* * *

**Chapter One.**

John was in the doghouse, he could feel it.

From the moment Dean had strode past him that morning, a bag of ammunition slung over his shoulder and a severe look across his usually chirpy features, John had known he was out of favour. When his son had let the motel room door swing shut in his face and later on at lunch when John had stopped at the diner they'd designated on the map the night before only to watch the Impala sail by on the road outside, he'd known again. The car had been parked at the next stop along – a silent message.

Dean didn't often do irritated, nor did he favour heated arguments or the shirking of orders, instead he did this. Silence. God it was annoying. Never did John think he'd have actually missed Sam's all-out confrontations, which whilst infuriating had never left him in any doubt as to what exactly was on his younger son's mind. Dean on the other hand was so closed that he made an unabridged Dostoevsky look like light reading. Still, at least this time he knew what it was all about.

Dean wanted a solo hunt. No playing back-up, no John hiding somewhere with a shotgun ready for the big showdown, just him, the Impala and a real live case. He was grown and as far as he was concerned, he was as ready as he'd ever be. The worst thing was that John didn't even disagree, he just couldn't make that final step and say 'yes.' He didn't know why. Not that his refusal to give an explanation had helped smooth matters over any, if anything it had only pissed Dean off more.

He was _definitely_ in the doghouse.

Pulling his truck over the rough overgrown lawn of the house, John shut off the engine and listened as the Chevy rumbled in alongside like some sort of metallic banshee always growling away just behind him. He'd never realised how reassuring that sound was until suddenly faced with the prospect of losing it. That sound told him Dean was there – had once upon a time told him that Sam _and_ Dean were there. The silence would be hellishly hard to bear.

Silence however was what he got, as abruptly Dean switched off the rumble and plunged the surroundings into sudden stillness. Sighing as the rear view showed no signs of his son emerging from behind the wheel, John flung open his door and swung out his legs. They couldn't both sit there like a pair of idiots, not when they had a job to do. Dean could sulk later.

Seeing the movement as his cue too, Dean slid silently from his seat and round to the trunk of the Impala, which opened with its usual creak of rebellious protest. There was no sign of Bobby, which meant until he arrived Dean and John were just going to have to contend with each other's company until John either apologised or laid down the law. The former was no option at all.

"Dean?" he began, convincing himself that the gruffness in his tone came from the six silent hours he'd spent staring at the road ahead and not reluctance. He watched his son's eyes slide upwards, ever obedient if not quite matched by the expression. _Yeah? _"I want to be ready to move when Bobby arrives. We get in, do what we've got to do and get out, you understand me?"

He wasn't sure what he'd hoped to achieve by using his drill sergeant's voice but whatever it was fell far short of the mark as Dean simply nodded in typical compliance.

"Yes sir," he added quietly, dropping his voice to hide the sarcastically military tone. John noticed it anyway but said nothing.

"You know what you've got to do in there?" he asked instead, wincing as he realised the sentence implied Dean was some sort of moron when in reality his son was anything but. Ironically Dean was probably the most grounded one in the family. He could almost feel Mary shaking her head somewhere,

_Oh John…_

Damn it if he wasn't letting everyone down, for all that he tried to do otherwise. Dean however simply nodded again, not showing it if he had been hurt by the insinuation.

"Put a round of salt in anything ugly while you and Bobby look for bones."

A hint of macabre Dean Winchester humour; the best kind, and what was more a silent acceptance of their situation. Obviously letting his father eat alone at some crumby diner had been punishment enough. In that respect Dean was also unlike Sam, luckily enough for John since his youngest son was able to hold a grudge with the tenacity of a pit bull despite his overall mildness of character. John snorted, a wry smile crossing his face as he nodded at his eldest in amusement.

"Sounds about right to me bud."

He chanced the nickname with a hint of hesitation, but was rewarded with a crooked smirk as Dean continued to sift through his vast array of weaponry, counting and discounting possible firearms for the hunt. Apparently John was forgiven but they both knew the issue was far from forgotten. It was only a matter of time before he tried again.

The house standing beyond their cars was much like any other haunted house they'd ever stumbled across, tall, old and imposing with the usual collection of missing tiles, boarded windows and peeling paint that signified its long-abandoned status. Once upon a time it had been an opulent private residence and a little after that a well to-do dental surgery, although business had ground to something of a halt after a suspicious and pretty bloodthirsty accident during some 'routine' molar work. After that the ravages of time had pretty much done the rest and as a window shutter creaked eerily in the wind somewhere above their heads, John felt Dean draw alongside him, a grimace of disgust gracing his features as he peered upwards.

"Wow," he offered with a snort, absently flapping up the back of his jacket to push a handgun into his waistband, "Cosy."

"Yeah."

Raising his head to again take in the peak of the building – a little medieval-style turret topped by a crooked weather vane – John half-registered Dean step past him and vault up onto the covered porch, stooping forward with a shielding hand to peer in through the window beside the door, seeing nothing much past dust, shadows and a whole heap of gloom. _Yeah, real cosy_.

When he turned back his father was still staring skywards, a clear frown of concentration on his face and a look Dean had seen one too many times to ever mistake. John had seen something. The younger's brow furrowed instantly, a quiver of readiness rippling over him as he tensed for action,

"What? Dad?" he stepped closer, fingers reaching behind his back and curling around the handle of the gun, "What is it?"

Letting out a long sigh John dropped his head blinking quickly as if shaking himself from a daydream. Technically he hadn't _seen_ anything it had just been a strange sensation of being watched. Possibly he was imagining things – in their line of work that was something of an occupational hazard, seeing the supernatural everywhere you looked – but he also knew enough of his instincts to trust them, which meant that whatever _was_ inside the house knew they were there. _Damn_. It took him a moment longer to notice Dean standing before him on the porch wearing his game-face.

"Nothing," he assured wearily, by which they both knew he meant _do nothing_ as opposed to _it was nothing_. A subtle distinction but an all too common one in their vast array of words, gestures and expressions that whilst initially created for hunting situations, seemed to have at some point subconsciously invaded their every exchange. Funnily enough it had been one of Sam's reasons for leaving, that sense of always being on duty. He'd bucked against it every chance he could and yet to Dean it came as naturally as breathing. John had often marvelled at that. The differences between them.

Sensing the situation descend from _threat pending_ to _stand down_, Dean uncurled his fingers from the pearl grip of his handgun, happy to oblige. Sighing at the false alarm he started forward off the porch, planting one foot down solidly onto the little white steps.

The crash of splintering wood took them both by surprise, Dean's boot disappearing through the broken shards as he pitched forwards through the air with a low yelp. Taking out the other steps as he went, he piled into the long grass with a thud, landing heavily on his outstretched forearms. A pair of feet thundered into view immediately, the familiar toes of his father's boots appearing a hair's breadth from his nose. He groaned in quiet embarrassment.

"Crap."

"You okay Dean?" came John's gruff tone, caught somewhere between concern and amusement with the former winning through. Peering down he watched as Dean hauled himself off the ground in a single push-up, clambering to his knees and then straightening, brushing soil-covered hands across the legs of his jeans as he did.

"Yeah," the response was snapped, the face flushed with anger. His pride was hurt but otherwise, John assessed, his son was fine. He let him have the dignity of clambering to his feet himself, instead turning and heading back to his truck with the intention of checking over his salt cartridges one last time. Dean followed behind him, muttering incoherently and displaying a vague limp. John would check on it later at the motel when the embarrassment of face-planting off a porch had worn off just a little, suggesting an examination there and then would have been like poking an angry bear and he wasn't keen to return to the doghouse for at least another week or so.

Luckily the squeal of bad brakes drew their attention and both men looked up in semi-amazement as a familiar face pulled up on the grass alongside them in an entirely unfamiliar vehicle. His expression through the windshield said it all.

To call Bobby Singer a connoisseur of fine cars was like calling McDonalds an experience in fine dining. He had cars – plenty of them – just all in varying stages of decay except the few salvageable ones that he used to get himself from A to B. Dean and John were used to rusty and mismatched vehicles drawing up, what they were not used to was once-bright orange VW camper vans complete with overhead bars for the stowing of surfboards and carefully hand-painted trails of pink flowers flowing across the front and down the sides. It was the scowl that sat firmly in place underneath the beard and cap however that just about finished the look. Bobby Singer was not a happy man.

Dean on the other hand, was ecstatic.

"Hey Bobby," he greeted with a cocksure smirk as the little camper door swung open, "Have fun at Woodstock?"

"Can it boy," came the sharp response as the older hunter slid ungraciously from the driver's seat, a death glare stamped firmly across his features, "It's the only damn thing I had working,"

Dean ignored the warning signs with practised ease,

"I like it, very summer of sixty-nine. Bryan Adams would be proud."

Stalking past him with a string of mumbled curses, Bobby threw a narrow-eyed glare at John, stood watching the proceedings with something like a grin of fondness. The truth was Bobby doted on his sons as much – if not sometimes a little more – than he did, the spiky relationship he shared with Dean was just another part of that, built on a mutual if not somewhat dysfunctional affection. They all knew that Bobby wouldn't have traded the barbs for anything in the world and the thought made John's smile widen,

"Bobby."

"You'd better talk to that idjit son of yours before I put a boot print on him," came the irritable reply instead as the elder hunter drew to a halt beside him and accepted a welcoming clap to the shoulder. Letting out a sigh Bobby turned to lean an arm against the roof of the Impala, pushing up his well-worn cap with a lazy thumb. He'd never say it but seeing the Winchesters – minus one – in good shape after a period of absence was always a pleasure. Even that damn boy was a sight for sore eyes. Beside him John sighed and sensing a change in the mood, Dean drew alongside them and stood quietly waiting for the brief.

"What have we got Bobby?"

The answer wasn't what John had expected, nor was the uncertain shrug that accompanied it.

"A spirit. Maybe."

"Maybe?" He shared a glance with Dean, "We're going to need a little more than that."

"That's all I know," the older hunter offered with widespread hands, "Buddy of mine called and asked me to take care of this spirit case he'd been working on. A suicide, one very bloody dental accident, handful of disappearances…" he shrugged again, "…just a regular salt and burn case."

Dean's brow furrowed,

"So why'd you call us?"

John nodded silently beside him, the question the exact same one playing over in his own mind. Salting and burning was not normally a three man job. Something was up. Reluctantly Bobby heaved a sigh, shifting almost awkwardly.

"Well, see now usually Clyde's a stand-up guy, real reliable, but something about the way he just called me out of the blue…" he tailed off, still carefully thinking the matter through before submitting to defeat, "…seemed strange."

John eyed him closely,

"You think it's a trap?"

"I'm damned if I can work out why."

Behind them Dean pulled out his gun, sliding back the top with a click of trusty metal. He eyes were glinting with dangerous anticipation as they turned to look at him, his mouth a grin.

"One way to find out."

Turning back to look at John, Bobby shrugged for a final time, his expression asking a silent question. _Well?_ Beside him the Winchester patriarch blinked, his gaze both mild and resigned. There was no way he was walking away from a potential job.

"Dean's right," he offered simply before turning and heading back towards his truck. Not knowing what they were up against was going to require a whole lot more consideration on the weaponry-front. It was also going to require a lot more planning.

Behind him Bobby grinned, nodding silently to himself and then turning to run a hand absently across the Impala's smooth and gleaming paintwork. He felt Dean's smirk of amusement before he heard it,

"Remembering what it's like to drive a proper car Bobby?" he prodded, drawing in to lean smugly against the bodywork of his pride and joy. Bobby simply grinned back, the width of his smile taking some of wind out of Dean's sails.

"No," he began, turning to saunter casually back towards the camper, "You got a ding in your side,"

"What?" As Dean scampered frantically to replace Bobby's position by the car, the colour virtually draining from his face as he ran loving hands across it, the older hunter chuckled to himself in amusement. Poor kid, him and that damn car. The funniest thing was that there wasn't even a scratch on it, a fact Dean quickly worked out for himself judging by the glare of ferocity he was wearing seconds later, "Bobby, you ever try that again I'll – ,"

"Nice wide street isn't it?" Bobby interrupted suddenly, the change in topic startling the anger straight out of the furious youngster, "Got a good clean view right down the road."

Dean blinked, not following.

"What's your point?"

"Watch where you're putting your feet kid," Bobby grinned back at him, smiling like the proverbial cat that got the cream, "Next time it might not be a porch you fall through."

_Fantastic._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two.**

Their plan was a simple one, split up and search the house systematically.

Getting up onto the porch without the aid of steps had been a little harder, although Dean knew without a shadow of a doubt that Bobby had hammed-up his ascent with the express purpose of getting under his skin. It had worked, a little too well in fact, since Dean had taken off towards the basement almost the second they had stepped across the threshold and into the dusty hallway. John had watched him go with a firm expression,

"Be careful,"

He'd received only an irritated flap of a backwards hand for his troubles. _I'm always careful_. Except apparently when climbing porches.

The hallway was impressively lavish, a wide round room with wall to wall black and white tiled flooring, only the black visible under the thick layer of grim and dirt. A sweeping staircase attached almost ethereally to the walls cascaded down towards them, a big solid reception desk pushed alongside it and a scattering of chairs arranged to one side for the once-clientele of the dental practice. It was dark inside the house, an oppressive gloom hampering by the thick dust and boarded windows, the place felt angry too, angry, unloved and if it was possible, very, very sad.

Bobby however had more pressing concerns,

"You get that banshee case I sent you?" he asked John pointedly as the pair trampled quietly across the reception area, eyes alert for sudden movement as they stopped to take in the maze of winding corridors on either side, each flanked by expensive and ornate panelling that hadn't been admired for many years. John frowned, his expression almost absent,

"Yeah. Minnesota."

Bobby nodded,

"That's right," he paused briefly, testing the water, "Thought it would a good one for Dean."

"So you said."

"Well?" Bobby pressed with a hint of irritation. John Winchester knew exactly what he was getting at, it was a conversation they'd had several times before only this time Bobby was in no mood to go around the houses. Bluntness was his best and favourite course of action, "Then why ain't he on it?"

"Bobby – ," it was a weary response instead of the angry one he'd expected, which told the older hunter that at some point in the not-too distant past Dean had probably asked the exact same question.

"Boy's twenty-four now," he interrupted smoothly, "He going to be clinging to your coat tails his whole life?"

"Bobby – ," Okay, _now_ he sounded irritated.

"He's ready John."

"_Damn it Bobby_!" Really irritated, but the difference was that John was irritated at himself and judging from the way he gathered his temper with a long sigh and made pains to soften his tone, he realised it too, "I know."

His tone however left no room for continued discussion, the bite in his voice saying what words wouldn't. _Leave it alone_. Bobby sighed but silently did as requested, he'd never be stupid enough to tell John Winchester how to raise his boys – if he was that way inclined he'd have told him to lay off Sam for a start – but at the same time he knew what needed to be said, and since Dean was too much of a good soldier to ever directly disobey his father, someone had to play devil's advocate for the kid.

"He fell off a porch," John offered suddenly as if it were some sort of deal-breaker. Bobby just shrugged,

"So? I fell over a tyre in the yard last week, doesn't make me a complete moron. Accidents happen."

For a moment a hint of a smile flashed across John Winchester's face and he tipped sparkling eyes towards his older comrade. Abruptly Bobby could see where Dean got that irritating smirk from.

"A tyre?"

Great, more Winchester smugness. Clenching fingers closer around his flashlight Bobby rolled his eyes and groaned, pushing past the taller man's shoulders and casting around the gloomy hallway with renewed keenness for the job at hand.

"Yeah, yeah."

Although at least John was smiling again.

The hallway was empty, devoid of both clues and any sign of danger. Not even the untouched layer of dust spread wide across every inch of the tiles yielded any trace of disturbance, which meant either nothing was there at all or whatever it was didn't leave footprints. Wordlessly they split up, both men separating on instinct and bringing up flashlights to light the dark and hushed corridors leading off from either side of the entrance. As far as John could see, normal uninhabited rooms stared back at him in the yellow glow and the only thing he was struck by was the sheer number of them. It was going to take a hell of a long time to search.

"_Why don't ghosts ever haunt trailers, huh?"_ Dean had commented one time as they'd traipsed fruitlessly around an abandoned hospital looking for remains of its otherworldly lodger. "_Or one-bed apartments? Why is it always buildings that have to come with freakin' maps?" _and whilst his eldest son was not often the world's most astute commentator, John had to admit he had a point.

"Hey!" The sound of Bobby's startled yell made him jump, spinning abruptly on his heels to cast his flashlight across the hall. The older hunter was standing on the threshold of the corridor to the right, his gun fixed firmly on some point in the gloom beyond. John was beside him in an instant, crossing the space in a breathless run and sliding alongside as back up, quickly adding his own gun to the mix.

The white overall clad back of a man greeted him, some sort of medical professional judging by the length of the jacket and what looked like a file in his hands. He was whistling softly, the sound distinctly out-of-tune and so fragmented it sounded like no song either hunter had ever heard, if not vaguely cheerful. Bobby's warning shout seemed to have had little effect.

"Turn around!" John tried again, his military voice firmly in place with the knowledge that very few people – or things – could ignore such harsh tones.

For a second the man didn't move, just freezing on the spot as if someone had hit pause. Then, very slowly he turned, pivoting his body in a slow and fluid spin until he was staring straight at them. His eyes seemed normal, not glassy or milky, not black. His head cocked at them quizzically, a strange smile flittering across his lips.

"Hi there," he offered brightly, the tone not quite matched by the glint in his eyes as he crossed his arms across his body and folded the file against his chest, as casual as if he were exchanging the time of day, "Nice of you to drop in."

"Who are you?" John demanded gruffly, shotgun still pointed at heart level and noting the lack of concern it seemed to create. If this guy was human then he seemed to have no fear of mortality. Instead he shrugged, casting around a little as if considering the question himself,

"Well, you might say that I'm the _proprietor_ of this little place. For now," he sighed proudly, raising a hand to slap the walls fondly, "Sorry she's not looking her best. I had other concerns."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, baffled and annoyed by the idle chatter,

"What in the hell are you?" he snapped, raising the gun a fraction of an inch and stepping closer. The man turned to look at him, gaze suddenly cold as if he'd had enough.

"Good question," he fired back eerily before raising a hand and priming his thumb and middle finger together, "Let's find out."

Before either John or Bobby could blink, the apparent dentist suddenly clicked, the noise surprisingly loud in the enclosed space and setting off an explosion of light that radiated up from a tiny beam until it engulfed everything and forced them to shield their eyes. The following blast knocked them from their feet and both thumped down onto the tiled floor with a thud, listening as the sound of the detonation echoed throughout the building and violently shook it to its foundations. When it finally died away the man was gone.

"What in the world – ,"

Nothing else was touched, the dust still lay in a thick blanket across the tiles, the panelling still sat dark in the shadows and the house continued to emit nothing but silence. Gruffly Bobby pushed himself upright, grunting with the exertion and grudgingly accepting John's hand as the younger man clambered to his feet and extended an arm.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," the former marine offered truthfully, casting around for the first time and noticing his shotgun discarded on the ground several feet away. Making sure Bobby was balanced enough to remain upright – still grumbling however – he stepped towards it, bending down low and closing his fingers around the metal.

They passed straight through.

"Wha – ," he tried again, dipping lower and attempting to wind tips under the cold hard barrel. Again they sailed through, almost as if the gun wasn't real, almost as if…_oh god_…almost as if _he_ wasn't real, "Bobby – ,"

He didn't need to say anything, the older hunter's eyes sat fixed firmly on the ethereal hand, face pale with shock and utter confusion. He didn't know what to say, although luckily neither had to because at that moment their dazed silence was broken by a welcomingly familiar shout of concern and the sound of pounding boots.

"Dad?! Bobby?!"

Dean skidded into view almost immediately, only just preceded by a beam of brightness from his flashlight, the yellow bouncing up and down as he ran. His eyes fell on the abandoned guns at once and abruptly his gaze darkened. John stepped towards him, releasing a sigh of relief at the sight of his uninjured son. He reached out a hand to clap him on the shoulder.

"You okay – ,"

Dean stepped clean through him, a single unseeing stride straight through his middle, squatting instead beside the guns and glancing up and around the hallway and corridors. His face remained dark with severity,

"Dad?" he bellowed again, pausing briefly to listen, "Bobby?"

As the men he was calling for stepped in behind him, both exchanging shared expressions of bewilderment, there was a vague chuckle behind them.

"You'll thank me when this is over John," it sang eerily, the sound obviously not reaching the still-crouched Dean, "Let the games begin."

* * *

How's it working so far? Any good? I've got to admit that something about taking Sam out of the mix and replacing him with John made this whole story really hard to write – he's just such an enigma that he's hard to figure out but at least I can say I'm giving it a go!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three.**

"Games?" It was Bobby who spoke first, voice sounding unnaturally loud in the enclosed space of the hallway.

John didn't answer him, a deep pit of dread rising up from his stomach, his eyes fixed squarely on Dean still crouched over their abandoned weapons with a gun hanging limply from his fingers and his brow furrowed deep in thought. Beside him Bobby cleared his throat uncertainly, casting around for any signs of trouble,

"I don't like the sound of that. Never was much good at games and I doubt I've gotten better with age."

John blinked but didn't alter his gaze,

"I don't think he means for us Bobby," he replied darkly, barely noticing as the older hunter's expression shifted in sudden understanding and swung alarmed towards the youngest member of their party.

"You don't think – ," Bobby paused, "He means Dean?"

John didn't answer, instead gritting his teeth and stepping towards his son desperately. He was _not_ going to let this happen,

"_Get out of here_!"

For a moment nothing moved except John's fingers, clenching and unclenching by his side, willing his eldest child to somehow pick up on his silent message. Years he'd been training Dean for the moment he'd be alone, _years_, he only hoped some of it had rubbed off. _Get out_.

Abruptly and almost as if channelling his father's spirit, Dean suddenly clambered to his feet, the weapons of both hunter's clenched in one hand, his trusty gun in the other. After a final look around he spun on his heel and headed for the main door, eliciting an unheard sigh of relief from his older comrades. _Thank God_. The relief proved short-lived however as his fingers reached for the handle only to have it twist violently upwards before him, almost as if some ghostly hand had beaten him to it. The sound of crunching metal that followed told them all that the lock had been broken and Dean's following attempt only proved it. The door was useless. Instead he spun back into the room, game-face slipping into place as he listened to the windows around the building slam shut, the glass darkening eerily as if one by one being painted over. It was shutting them in.

"No!" swinging away from his son wildly John spun into the open room, eyes glinting dangerously in the blackness, "Where are you?" he bellowed, the sound bouncing off the walls and yet still strangely unheard by Dean, "_Where_ _are you_?!"

"Whoa, whoa," the voice that sung back at them from the stairs startled them both and they spun on instinct to watch as the 'dentist' bounced casually down the steps towards them before stopping halfway and leaning nonchalantly against the handrail. He was smiling, "Easy there Papa Bear. It's kinda hard to watch all the fun when you're having a meltdown. Relax a little."

John stepped towards him, barely keeping his anger in check. His voice was low,

"Whatever you want, fine, you can have it. Just let my son go."

He was greeted with what sounded like a ripple of genuine amusement, the dentist shaking his head and slapping a hand across one knee, obviously tickled.

"Whatever _I_ want?" he repeated in disbelief, "Oh no, no, no. See, this is about what _you_ want John," abruptly the tone deepened, the merriness being abandoned for a devilish smirk, "Remember? You wanted to know what kind of hunter your son really was? Well, here's your chance to find out. I'm just lending a helping hand."

As the smile returned it was Bobby who stepped towards him, his tone gruff with fury,

"Why you – ,"

"Now, now old-timer," the dentist interrupted smoothly, "Plenty of time for that later, when…oh, I mean _if _the kid doesn't make it."

"You hurt one hair on that boy's head and I swear – ,"

Again the older hunter found himself beaten to the point, his bravado making their foe chuckle all over again, a flash of wickedness dancing through the feral eyes,

"Oh what, because you're such an innocent in all of this? Well then tell me who was it that took the call again, huh? Because it certainly wasn't me, although – ," a shrug of indifference, "I might have _made_ it."

The revelation checked Bobby's anger at once, incredulousness replacing the fiery red hue of his cheeks,

"_You_?"

Holding up his hand to his ear, finger and thumb pointed out to indicate a telephone, the dentist tilted his head to one side, his voice suddenly coming out in a perfect imitation of their contact for the whole damn job. Clyde.

"Hey Bobby?" he began brightly, mimicking the conversation word for word, "Need a hand on a job I've got down here. Haunting case, salt and burn. You in?" He even acted out hanging up and then looked across at them, spreading his hands wide as if for applause, "Sound familiar?"

When he finally managed to speak again Bobby's voice trembled with unconcealed rage,

"You bastard. What did you do to him? What did you do to Clyde?"

A snort of indignation,

"That jackass? Guy was a moron. I did you a favour getting rid of him."

And although neither would respond, both hunters' silently and grudgingly agreed. Clyde had been a particularly bad example of humanity. In the hunting game for his love of the kill rather than a sense of justice or morality he'd been known to leave victims lying by roadsides after wasting whatever it was that had attacked them, simply wiping off the blood and moving on. Bobby only used him as an occasional contact, a source for work, but only as a last resort. His death only hurt in that he was a fellow hunter, he was one of them. The thing standing before them definitely wasn't.

"Seem to be doing people a lot of 'favours' recently," John replied darkly with biting cynicism. He simply got a broad smile in return.

"I do my best,"

"Not for Clyde."

"No," came the response, the expression becoming strangely sincere for a moment, "That particular favour was for the clueless little blonde he dragged along with him. Thought seeing him dust a real-life ghost would turn her on," he shrugged simply, running the heel of his palm across the smooth wood of the banisters absently, "It didn't."

John blinked, unable to assess the strange juxtaposition of willing torment and gallant retribution standing so calmly before him. He was also struggling to see exactly how Dean fitted into the picture.

"My son isn't anything like that,"

"I know, which is why he's still alive. For now. I told you, I'm doing this one for you."

"Why?"

Another shrug and damn if they weren't getting more annoying.

"Because it's important."

"To who?"

The dentist threw him a patronizing wink in response, his expression a meaningful smirk that John couldn't quite read.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

To one side of them, finally deciding the coast was clear enough to venture off around the house, Dean took a step forward casting first from left to right at the corridors and then straight ahead at the steps. The dentist grinned,

"Here we go! Looks like show time boys!"

Bobby stepped forward despite himself, one hand held out to try and grab Dean's arm before he realised with frustration that the move was impossible. He spun towards the stairs with a growl, noticing as he did that John was watching his son intently, trying to read the emotions on his face,

"What are you going to do to him?"

"Oh nothing much, just a few basic tests, practical examinations if you will,"

Bobby's expression narrowed again,

"Like what?"

He received only a chuckle for his troubles, the dentist tipping his head towards him with a mischievous glint in his eye,

"One at a time Gramps," John was still watching Dean, watching as his son's eyes darted from side to side. He was weighing up his options. _Good, don't just charge in son. Think_. "First up, logic."

"Logic?"

Bobby didn't get his response because at that moment Dean made up his mind and suddenly veered right, towards where he'd first found the abandoned guns, his stride cautious but determined. The dentist clapped his hands together abruptly, his expression newly excited.

"Excuse me, that's my cue," he turned his back towards them briefly before spinning again, waving a casual hand as if he was excusing himself from a dinner party, "Won't be a minute. Talk amongst yourselves."

Then he was gone, leaving John and Bobby standing alone in confusion and alarm. Finally the older hunter swallowed, offering a look across at the stricken father still watching his son hawk-like.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked slowly,

"About what?" John's tone was tense, snapped even. Bobby ignored it,

"What we're up against here," the sentence caught the eldest Winchester's attention and judging from the look on his face Bobby assumed he did, choosing to answer for him, "Trickster?"

John sighed wearily,

"I can't think of anything else that would bend reality like this."

Bobby snorted dryly,

"Or anything that would _want_ to."

So that settled it then, they were up against a real-live God. Or, in actual fact apparently Dean was, alone, unprepared and totally on the back-foot whilst his only hopes for salvation looked on helplessly from some strange world caught between existence and non-existence. No wonder John looked about as worried as he'd ever seen him.

Bobby could think of nothing else to say,

"Dean'll be just fine," he offered instead with a grim smile of false assurance, "You wait and see."

But that was the problem, waiting was the only thing they could do, and until it was all over it was going to hurt like hell.

* * *

So there you go, another chapter and I hope it made sense. It was sort of difficult to organise when I wrote it and reading it back I'm not sure it's not a complete jumble but there you go – the dangers of trying to be too clever! Oh and yes, it's a trickster although whether or not it's _the_ Trickster is up to you, I'm kind of thinking that maybe it is but am happy to go with the majority!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four.**

It was safe to say that Dean was freaking out. A quiet measured version, but a definite freak-out nonetheless.

The basement had been a dead end, literally, with most of it damp, dark and musty-smelling. About the only thing of interest was a pile of charred ashes, recent by the looks of things and the floor around garnished with a few untouched grains of salt. Whatever Clyde had called Bobby for help with, it obviously wasn't the ghost anymore, which was strange since that was exactly what he'd said it was. Maybe there was more than one. Either way, his dad and Bobby really needed to know.

He'd heard the explosion – or at least what had sounded very much like an explosion – when he was still halfway up the rickety steps, flashlight playing carefully over each loose board. It was all very well putting his foot through a porch, but falling several feet into a pitch black basement didn't fill him with any great enthusiasm.

The abandoned guns were the first things he'd seen as he'd skidded in across the dusty hallway, swirls of grime still billowing out from where they'd been recently dropped. Although the ringing still seemed to echo around the room, nothing else moved and certainly nothing looked like it had withstood a blast of any kind. It was all just as he'd left it. Except neither his father nor Bobby were anywhere to be seen.

"Dad? Bobby?!"

Nothing. Not even the shuffling of feet or a groan that maybe they were somewhere nearby, injured or otherwise. He bent to collect up their guns, eyes darting from left to right at the corridors on either side of him and the winding staircase above. He was alone and the question now was what exactly to do for the best. He knew what his father would be saying to him, hell he could practically hear the familiar tones shouting in his head.

_Dean, get out._

He was probably right, getting out seemed like about the best thing he could do, if only to grab more weapons from the trunk. If he was going to find the others – and he _was_ going to find them – then he needed to be prepared for whatever it was that might have got to them, which in light of the fact it had disarmed and taken down the two most experienced hunters he knew, was looking less and less like a ghost. Getting outside also meant he could phone Clyde and give him a verbal kicking for more information across the phone. That at least would be a start.

He never got that far. As he turned and headed for the door, reaching fingers out to twist the handle, it snapped upwards away from his reach with a ferocity that sent him stumbling backwards listening helplessly to the lock mechanism splinter within the wooden frame. The door was stuck fast. Time for a new plan.

His choices were simple, blow or kick the door in – which given its state wouldn't take much – _or_ accept the fact that something wanted him to stay inside and play along. His father was still mentally screaming for him to head out but he ignored the voice determinedly, the point was that John Winchester was no longer there to dictate and so Dean was free to follow his own, probably more reckless instincts. He was going in.

Since it was where he'd found the abandoned weapons, it made sense for Dean to take the right-hand corridor first and he shuffled a cautious foot across the threshold, one of the shotguns primed in his hands, his semi-automatic tucked into his jeans and the other gun emptied of rounds and propped by the door. Bobby wouldn't want to leave that behind _when_ he got back.

"Dad?" his tone sounded hesitant even to his ears and he cursed himself mentally, hardening his voice as he tried again, "Dad?"

The lack of response was hardly welcoming and so he continued to slowly navigate his way past the panelling until he reached the first door, ajar but still hiding what ever it was that lay beyond, which turned out to be yet more dust as he applied a heavy boot to it and swung the barrel into the room. He sighed heavily in response, one door down about a thousand more to go. Great.

He took the rest of the corridor systematically, working his way from one side to the other, checking each room individually and seeing nothing other than an endless expanse of stripped flooring and marks where once upon a time heavy pieces of furniture had sat; a desk perhaps and some bookshelves.

By the time he rounded the corner however he was beginning to come across dentist equipment, starting with a chair.

The dentist had never been Dean's favourite place and he'd made sure everyone had known it. As far as he was concerned any dude that wanted to make a living from rummaging around in someone else's mouth had to have been the product of an unhealthy childhood. Sam had quite liked it though, always taking a bizarrely avid interest in his x-rays and the progress of his various teeth. Then again Sam had always been a freak, although when they'd gotten older his little brother had at least always put aside his lollipop to give to Dean. Good times.

The dentist's chair though, was freaky. Sat all alone in an empty room like the poor relation of a horror movie restraint table in an old abandoned asylum, dusty and unused. The little tray of implements had survived intact however and the array of shining points and utensils made Dean shudder involuntarily. Suddenly the whole bloodthirsty-molar-work story seemed frightening vivid.

Letting out a groan of sympathy Dean shook his head and turned back into the corridor, just in time to see a flash of shadow dart by beyond. What the – .

"Hey!"

Shotgun raised Dean took off after it, just watching the flicker of darkening light dash around the corner and out into the main hallway again. Whatever it was, it moved fast. Damn fast and by the time he'd skidded out into the tiled entrance once more he was convinced he'd lost it, until a breaking of sunlight at a crack in one of the windows alerted him to the fact that it was heading upstairs. Dean didn't even pause, taking the steps two at a time and trying to keep an eye on where his feet were landing as well as tracking the flicker.

It was a hard climb, the lactic acid beginning to sear at his legs from the inside out as the first-floor landing fell into view, flat beyond the dizzying rise of steps. As he tried to turn towards it he slammed ungracefully into the banister post, cursing breathlessly,

"Crap!"

Whatever the hell he was chasing had better be worth it.

Ahead of him a door banged against a broken lock, bouncing off the frame and swinging inwards with a gentle creak. Dean slowed to a walk instantly, bringing the shotgun up again and stepping cautiously towards it. The room was a dead-end, some long abandoned office judging by the empty filing cabinets he could see through the crack. Running his tongue across his lips, he reached out a hand, pushing the door open again and trying to ignore the squeaking hinges. Bang went the element of surprise and with that in mind he flung it wide and stepped in.

It was empty.

He swung about cautiously, taking a pace back as he moved silently around the room, checking all the corners. There was nothing there. Dropping the gun a little Dean couldn't prevent the confused frown that slid across his face. He'd _followed_ it. It _had_ to be there. Only apparently it wasn't.

"Son of a bitch."

He could positively feel his father's disappointment, although there wasn't much he could do about it there. He'd just have to keep looking, maybe he'd even find the others that way. Sighing he let the gun drop to his side and turned towards the door, stepping back across something and listening to a crack beneath his boots. Frowning he bent down towards the floor, taking in the object with confusion that fast turned to revulsion. He was staring at a set of false teeth,

"Oh gross," he hissed, kicking them aside and watching them skitter across the dusty floor, "Place is damn creepy," and with a self-conscious tug at his collar Dean turned back towards the door again, stepping into a ghostly face as he did.

"Holy – ," As he staggered backwards in shock, colliding with one of the empty filing cabinets and making it rock uncertainly he fumbled to raise his gun, pausing for a second as the apparition – a little elderly lady with white sockets for eyes and a tattered appearance – rose a finger towards him.

Dean didn't hesitate. He promptly loaded her with salt.

What he didn't expect however was the blinding bright light that suddenly filled the room, one arm instinctively rising in an attempt to shield his eyes from the intensity. When it finally died down enough for him to see again he let it drop to his side, stumbling back a little as he took in his surroundings with a hiss of surprise.

He was back on the ground floor again, in the hallway, looking up at the stairs.

"What the hell?"

Things had just gotten weirder and he – apparently – was back at square one.

* * *

Confused? Don't worry, so are John and Bobby!

While I'm at it I just want to take a moment to thanks everyone who's reviewed also. I really wasn't sure about this one because it was so difficult to write, but I thought it was worth a go and I'm glad some of you think so too. Cheers m'dears (as we say here) keep 'em coming!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five.**

"What in the world was that?"

Standing a pace behind Dean –and judging by the boy's lack of reaction – still unheard, Bobby blinked in amazement, casting around in a wide circle and taking in the dusty entrance.

John ignored him, eyes instead focusing intently on his son as Dean looked from left to right, the same confusion playing across his face as he tried to wrap his head around the twist in events. Bobby paused,

"Did he…fail?"

"I don't know," John offered with a cautious sigh, still reading Dean's movements.

"Then let me guess," continued Bobby, tone now heavy with sarcasm, "We're stuck here until he gets it right," the lack of response only seemed to validate his fears, "Great."

Dean was looking around, weighing up his options. His game-face was still on which was good in that it represented his determination, he knew he was in some kind of a test and he wasn't about to give up. If there was one thing John knew about his son then it was that he was stubborn, not outwardly like Sam, but a quiet defiance that forced him on when the odds were stacked against him. John hadn't taught him that, he wouldn't have known how, Dean just had it. It was a fact for which he'd never been more grateful.

"Strike one!" came a cheerful voice from above them, drawing both men's attention towards the Trickster leaning casually over the banisters and grinning from ear to ear, "How many chances do you think he's going to need? Two? Seven? I'll give you good odds."

Bobby's expression turned to an instantaneous snarl of accusal,

"You're enjoying this?" he snapped, disbelieving, "Messing with the kid's head?"

The hands spread wide,

"Guilty."

"Well you mark my words that boy is going to do everything you put in front of him and more, and when he's done he'll be coming after you,"

The Trickster laughed, a patronising chuckle finished by a cluck of sympathy,

"You know something? I almost believe you Gramps."

"You should."

"Oooh," the Trickster breathed patronizingly, raising an arm and pointing to it with his other hand in mock fear, "Shivers. And what about you dad?" he piped up suddenly, eyes swivelling towards John, "No threats for me this time?"

The dark expression that gazed up at him almost caught him off-guard for a second, the fury barely being restrained as the dark-haired hunter met his eyes without blinking.

"Don't underestimate my son."

"I won't. That's your job, remember?" Abruptly the Trickster broke eye contact, turning over his wrist and checking his watch with sudden enthusiasm before letting the smile slip back across his face again, "Well, well, round two," he grinned, tilting his head towards the corridors on either side of the entrance and forcing Bobby and John to follow suit, "Let's see how he does this time."

Before either of them could speak the black shadow flitted out of the panelled passageway once more, apparently not waiting around for Dean to start the search all over again. It whipped past them like a chill wind, startling Dean who took a halting step backwards before realising what was happening and taking off after it again.

This time he was closer and Bobby and John were left to follow in his wake as he bounced up the stairs past the still-amused looking Trickster.

"Kid sure can run," he commented cheerfully before turning his attentions to the two hunters following behind. It wasn't a good idea for him to let them get to close and so seconds before they hit the same step he was on – aiming to beat the crap out of him if their combined expressions were anything to go on – he disappeared, materialising on the second climb of steps above the first floor landing.

Dean managed to avoid slamming into the banister post the second time around, remembering to control his turn enough to avoid the protruding wood and not add another bruise on top of the first. The door ahead of him was still flapping gently and on this occasion Dean wasted no time, charging into the room, turning and waiting. Bobby and John were just behind him, Bobby coming to a breathless standstill and bending over to rest hands on his knees,

"He'd better get it right this time," he gasped in the pause, "I ain't doing that again."

Dean was standing before them, waiting. The shotgun was pointed upwards but help limply in vague realisation that since shooting the ghost hadn't worked the first time it probably wasn't going to work on the second either. It hovered upright though, testament to Dean's entire upbringing. Being in a room with a ghost and _not_ shooting it? That was kind of weird, although at least he wasn't stepping on the teeth this time.

For a moment everyone stood and held their breath, the anticipation growing.

"Come on," Bobby muttered irritably in the silence, almost like a man in a shop watching the little old lady in front of him pay for her entire basket with a mountain of loose change. Only they were waiting on a spirit.

It a took a few seconds longer to appear, flickering like a television picture and still managing to startle Dean just a fraction before his resolve returned. Judging by the look on his face he had no idea what he was supposed to do, but he didn't let it show for long, instead letting the image start to slowly shuffle towards him, the same appealing finger held out and a look of desperation on the pale and unmoving features.

Dean swallowed uneasily.

The ghost was distressed, that much was clear from the look in her eyes, the way the mouth moved up and down without sound and the way she took shaking steps towards him, hand waving around for assistance. The only problem was that Dean had no clue what she wanted, nor for that matter did the others.

"I don't get it," Bobby offered in the confused silence, screwing up his face as he tried to understand what was going on, "What the hell does she want?"

John blinked, at a loss to explain himself. The ghost was getting closer and closer to a more uncomfortable Dean, which was hardly surprising. Of all the things John had taken care to teach his son – both his sons – ghost correspondence was not one of them.

By now the apparition was just a fingertip away, reaching up a long finger toward Dean, moving to run a ghostly hand across his face and around his jaw, the cool touch caressing his chin.

"Hey."

Abruptly Dean stepped back, widening the gap again and watching as she continued to walk forward. Again he stepped back and again and again until he was pressed up against the filing cabinet with nowhere left to go and even less of an idea of what the damn thing wanted than when he'd started. He screwed up his face as the fingers reached out again and suddenly he could stand the discomfort no longer. She needed to back off. Fast.

"Hey, grandma, every heard of personal space?"

At the same moment as he rose the butt of the gun and punted it towards the ghost's middle however, inspiration struck John.

"Wait…" Bobby turned to look at him quizzically, "He needs to – ,"

As the end of the shotgun touched the ghost it burst into a thousand pieces and instantly the room was filled with the piercing light that had blinded them all the first time around, the intensity again sending them cowering into their elbows for relief.

"Aw hell!" Bobby moaned from somewhere within the beaming luminosity, "Here we go again!"

When they hesitantly opened their eyes they were back in the entrance hall. Back at the beginning.

"Strike two!" The Trickster was back up on the stairs again, still grinning and if anything seeming even more amused than last time. In the hallway before then, casting around in frustrated disbelief, Dean too voiced his own opinions.

"Damn it!"

Bobby sighed, no less irritated himself as he shut his eyes and groaned.

"We're gonna be stuck here forever," he muttered, dragging a weary hand across his face. John however seemed less put out, gazing with fierce passion at his son, eyes never wavering,

"He'll get there Bobby, he'll get there. Trust him."

* * *

Yeah, kind of like groundhog day for poor Dean (and John and Bobby for that matter) but not eternally so you'll just have to wait and see on that one – plenty more stages for Dean to get through yet!

Oh and thanks for the continuing reviews, I had a crappy day at work today (which is a given when you have a complete plank for a boss) but they made me smile...as does the alcohol ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six.**

Dean didn't even wait for the dark flash the third time around, simply stalking towards the stairs in a resolute trudge of dark determination, not even flinching as the ghostly shape flashed past him halfway up. It didn't matter, they both knew where he was going.

For the second time in a row Dean again managed to avoid the protruding banister post, skirting it with practised ease and striding silently into the room straight through the gently flapping door. Positioning himself against the filing cabinet Dean turned, let the shotgun hang by his side and waited. It took close to a minute for the ghostly woman to reappear, keeping to the old time frame despite his own attempts to speed the process along.

Again she began her slow unsteady trek towards him, cold pale hand reaching out, fingers gliding towards his face. Dean let her do it, clenching his teeth against the discomfort screaming in his head. _This is wrong, this is all kinds of wrong_. He felt like he was being violated, violated by some dead old lady. God he was such a girl.

Casting down Dean tried hard to avoid eye contact. Being felt up by the damn thing was bad enough without having to look at it too. Curiosity however got the better of him and as the ghostly tatter of clothing pressed up close against him he chanced a glance upwards, unexpectedly startled by what greeted him at eye-level. A toothless mouth. He knew there was a reason he hated dentists.

As the cool touch of her fingers inched along his jaw line Dean took an instinctual step backwards, his boot connecting with something and sending it skittering along the stripped floorboards. That damn set of teeth again…the place was like a hypochondriac's worst nightmare. He stopped dead.

The teeth.

_Bingo._

Quickly ducking out of the continued probing – which Dean now realised was probably a warped attempt at checking his own dental status – he scooped the teeth up off the ground, swiftly moving around the disused filing cabinet and pulling open one of the drawers. A bunch of files stared back at him. Perfect. Taking out the small bottle of lighter fluid he kept habitually stored in his inside jacket pocket for unexpected dousing sessions, he quickly twisted off the cap and poured the contents into the drawer, dodging around as the spirit stumbled forwards. Saving one twist of paper for his lighter, Dean dropped the burning scrap into the cabinet and watched it burst into sudden flames. The dentures disappeared in after it and promptly the ghost screamed as if startled.

For a moment nothing happened to her and suddenly it struck Dean that the enamel of the teeth might take a hell of a lot longer than he'd anticipated to burn, thankfully however enough of the gruesome memento disintegrated to get the job done and abruptly the apparition burst into a cloud of dust, penetrated by that same bright light again. This time when the illumination faded however he found himself still staring at the same walls – the tiles and stairs of the hallway somewhere on the floor below him. _Thank God_.

Job done.

Which posed another, just as important question.

"What now?"

As if in answer the door banged softly back against the wall and out in the corridor the black flash darted past him again. He'd assumed it had been part of the ghost's manifestation but the unmistakeable sight of the dark figure in the ghost's obvious absence lead him another conclusion instead. Whatever it was, it was showing him where to go.

"Yeah," he snorted to himself, "Like I'm going to trust you."

Still it was a big house and he did have his dad and Bobby to find, if the 'thing' was taking him on some weird supernatural tour of the place then maybe it would end up wherever the other two were. Either way, Dean was _not_ going to chase after it this time. Caution was the best of his decidedly limited options and so, raising the shotgun again, he inched his way from the room and back out onto the staircase landing.

The thing hovered further up the stairs, which seemed to stretch on and on around the wall making him feel dizzy just looking up, almost as if the ceiling was extending into the sky before his eyes. Dean blinked in alarm and turned his attentions back again as the dark flash darted off onto the next floor. More stair climbing, great, it was like being stuck in an aerobics video – without hot girls in tight clothes. In short, it sucked.

He was about halfway up the next flight when he realised that the steps were beginning to shake underneath him, a deep rumbling like an earthquake only nothing else was trembling, not the pictures flanking the walls, not the glass in the windows. Just the stairs. He knew instantly it meant trouble and his fingers tightened around the shotgun at once, his weight shifting onto the back of his feet, ready to move in any direction at a moment's notice.

As it turned out the direction he suddenly needed to be heading was up because as the shaking continued to grow in strength, so much so that he felt he was going to be juddered straight off the step he was balanced on, there was a loud cracking noise like something heavy splintering and breaking behind him, fragments bouncing down onto the tiles far below. He swallowed uneasily and swung around on his toes. The stairs behind him were gone and step by single step the staircase was crumbling, the opening abyss fast heading his way.

"Oh you've got to be _kidding_ me!"

Only apparently no one was and suddenly Dean found himself looking at a nasty drop for the second time that day, except this time around chances of recovery on the ground were slim to none. He needed to get moving. Fast.

He took the steps two at a time, the desperation driving him on as the muscles in his legs began to complain bitterly about the sudden exertion, the trembling threatening to pitch him off balance with every second and getting worse as the masonry dropped away effortlessly at his heels. It didn't take long for him to work out that the crumbling was moving faster than he was and although he kept his eyes glued to the second floor landing flattening out and growing closer with every pounding step, he couldn't ignore the fact that the back of his boots were beginning to touch air.

As the weightlessness shifted to the middle of his foot however, Dean dived, driving himself up from his toes and throwing himself towards the landing with his arms outstretched. He'd made the leap just in time and as he took to the air the disintegration completely overtook him and he knew instantly that if he fell short of the mark he was facing a long, long drop.

He only just reached, his forearms and chin slamming down onto the landing before the weight of the rest of his body dragged him backwards again, nails scrabbling for a hold until he'd stopped moving. His was panting like a madman, the exertion of the previous thirty seconds seeming more like a marathon than an upward sprint.

Once he was sure his hands had purchase he swung up his leg, hauling the other one behind it and rolling bodily onto the landing, flopping heavily onto his back and resting for a weary moment to regain control of his breathing. He definitely _did not_ like this house. Nor for that matter did it seem to like him much either.

"Feeling's mutual," he muttered, rolling over onto his side with a groan and stumbling to his feet as it occurred to him that the landing perched above the crumbled staircase was probably not the safest place to be hanging out. Wearily he staggered towards the second floor corridors, barely stifling a groan as the black shadow appeared again, flickering to his left past another row of doors and yet again luring him in with a sense of impatience.

"Yeah, because that worked so well last time."

But again he had no other options and so taking a deep breath and throwing his eyes briefly skywards Dean followed after it, not running as he had the first time but definitely not dragging either. Last thing he needed was the damn floor going from under him as well.

The trail led past another row of empty rooms before turning a corner into a similar space, the house seemingly made up of row upon row of doors, each leading to God only knew where and the whole place like one big maze. Briefly and only just briefly, Dean was suddenly glad of his guide, or at least he was until he realised it had again vanished which could only mean one thing. Again Dean raised the shotgun, starting slightly as the doors around him began to slam shut in sudden synchronicity. He tried the handle closest to him quickly, unsurprised to find it locked. He sighed wearily in response, frustration and cynicism fast replacing alarm.

"What now?"

It didn't take long for the floor around him to begin to rumble again and Dean frowned, surprised by the same old trick. The crumbling floor thing again? Someone was getting lazy. Only, it turned out they weren't because as he stood waiting to see where the floor was caving in, the wall of noise increased and a sudden shadow briefly blotted out the light from the direction he had come. Not the collapsing floor trick again then, something worse and as it rounded the corner in a smooth roll Dean almost choked in surprise.

It was a rock, a boulder to be precise, only huge and barrelling straight towards him. Suddenly he was in some bizarre suburban remake of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"What the – ,"

He didn't waste any time, taking to his heels with a sudden burst of speed. The closed doors no longer surprised him – ducking aside would have been far too easy, besides Indiana Jones hadn't had the option of dipping into a side-room although of course he'd been fortunate enough to be in a movie. Damn Hollywood. Dean didn't have that option at all, nor could he go around, being squashed was about his only option next to going upwards and how in the hell was he supposed to –

The chandelier gave him a sudden means for salvation hanging down from the ceiling, all ornate crystal and golden framework. The thought made his heart hitch in hope and he chanced a quick look back and applied some mental mathematics. It was just short enough to work. Maybe. Still, he didn't have time for the debate and so tucking the shotgun into his jeans he threw himself upwards again, fingers wrapping around the frame and his weight and momentum pitching him into a swing up towards the ceiling. He lifted the rest of his weight with his arms, pulling in his feet and just feeling the boulder rush past under him, gently snagging the back of his flapping jacket.

The chandelier gave way seconds later and Dean only just managed to land on his feet before pitching sideways onto the floor amidst the scattered glass, a cloud of plaster raining down on him from above and the securing chain thudding heavily onto the floorboard between his legs. A fraction to the right and fatherhood would no longer have been an option for him. Gruesome. Still, he was in one piece for the moment as the boulder rumbled off down the corridor, following the turns as if worked by some giant magnet. Close, too close.

The black flash appeared almost instantly up ahead as the rumble died down again and at the sight of it Dean groaned and pushed himself back onto his feet, patting away the clouds of dust.

"Oh, give me a break will you!" but even as he was complaining he was moving towards it, following with a sense of resigned anticipation. As long as he thought of the bigger picture he'd keep going. He had to, he had to find his dad and Bobby, although that in itself drew a wry grin and a derisive snort,

"You guys had better be damn grateful,"

And taking up the shotgun again he set off after it, hoping against hope that the next challenge was either a room of naked women or full to the brim with pie and figuring that just about anything was possible.

Anything it turned out, but that.

* * *

Okay, I've made a decision – it's nothing to do with the story so don't worry – I'm going to give up work and become a lady of leisure, all I need to do now is win the lottery or have some multi-millionaire relation I have no idea existed leave me some sort of fortune. I'm currently thinking it's do-able but am working on the particulars! Leave it with me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven.**

"Whoo!"

As the boulder rumbled off down the corridor and away into the confines of the Trickster's mind, the Master of Ceremonies himself appeared beside John and Bobby, leaning up against the wall, hands clapping together in a solid round of applause and a look of exhilaration on his face,

"Gotta love Indiana Jones, huh?" he paused briefly, considering his own sentence before shrugging, "Well, not the second one so much, kind of a let-down there, but the third? Hilarious. Honestly, choosing Sean Connery was a masterstroke. Your boy's not so bad either."

He stopped suddenly as John advanced towards him, fists balled and a look of fury on his face,

"You sadistic bastard!" he roared, only stopped by Bobby inserting himself between them and grabbing the front of his shirt,

"John."

The one thing they did not need was an all-out fight with a Trickster, especially weapon-less and without having read the relevant background lore. The other hunter stopped but his anger stayed present,

"You listen to me – ,"

"No," abruptly the humour died from the Trickster's eyes and he turned to gaze across the space between them dangerously, "_You_ listen. I'm going easy on the kid because, hey, I kind of like him, but if you want me to make this difficult then trust me, I can."

He let the sentence hang for a second, the weight of its implications earning a flash of fiery rebellion before sanity returned to reclaim John, his shoulders dropping as he took a calming step backwards. Bobby however stayed in place between them, snorting in bitter derision,

"You call sending some great big rock after him going easy?"

"You have no idea."

Suddenly Bobby preferred him joking.

John had turned his attentions back to Dean again, watching him pat the dust from his jacket and climb to his feet with a groan. He didn't seem too hurt, just tired and pissed, the shotgun hanging in his hands for good measure as he continued down the corridor past them after the black flash. John didn't altogether trust the thing – and judging by his expression nor did Dean – but if there was another way out of the mess they'd found themselves in then he couldn't think of one. Not that he hadn't tried. As they'd trampled around after Dean he'd even tried to pick up some of the objects around them, figuring if he could just wrap his fingers around something he could use it as a weapon against the Trickster, of course everything he had tried to touch had just ghosted right on through him, besides which taking on a demigod without the proper utensils was probably akin to suicide.

His attentions were drawn by the sight of Dean stopping dead before them, grinding to a sudden halt and turning his head towards the lengthening corridor stretching ahead. The doors were open again, a mixture of offices and dental rooms all still set-up as if waiting for their next patient. Dean however had his head tilted, letting his ears do all the work. John paused too, trying to figure out what his son had picked up on and listening closely with a building sense of dread.

He heard it at the exact same time Bobby did, the pair of them exchanging a wide-eyed glance. It was the sound of a woman crying, a desperate terrified sob that sounded too real to be another ghost. Abruptly John turned, spinning towards the Trickster with a demand for information on his lips but being met only with thin air as their impromptu commentator vanished with a final parting sentence.

"Next up, brawn."

John grit his teeth together hard, forcing his frustrations back in the realisation they weren't going to help.

"_Damn it_."

"Brawn?" repeated Bobby, eyes fast forward, "What do you suppose that means?"

He turned back to Dean again, staying quiet, all three hunters – the seen and unseen – waiting for whatever the hell was coming their way next. Each was separately holding their breath.

It wasn't good. In fact it was a werewolf and worse still it hit from behind, diving through John and Bobby as if they were nothing more than a swirling patch of mist, not that their hidden status stopped them both from stumbling backwards in surprise, or stopped John from shouting a warning to his son.

"Dean!"

It caught Dean on the turn, slamming him sideways into the wall with a flailing of its claws, raking clean lines down the sleeve of his jacket but thankfully managing not much else. Dean stumbled, letting the wall take his weight as he levelled the shotgun upwards and fired right into the face. The force of the shot – as well as the impromptu showering of salt – sent it reeling backwards, pawing at its eyes and definitely more pissed than it had been seconds before. Still, the distraction allowed Dean enough time to push himself onto his feet and run, Bobby, John and finally the werewolf all hot on his heels like a bizarre Benny Hill chase that only two of them could see.

The first door he came to, Dean threw himself sideways into it, his speed and turning circle proving a lot more effective than the slavering werewolf, who slid past with a snarl and thrust sharp claws into the wall as a means for stopping. The sound of splintering panelling was the last thing Dean heard before slamming shut the door and glancing around for salvation.

The room was an office, or at least it had been once, a nice one too, still much as it had been left and complete with shelves, papers and a few small mementos. There was also a tall free-standing bookshelf by the door and Dean wasted no time pushing off the books with the barrel of the shotgun before pushing the frame over to block the doorway – which proved harder than it looked when the shelves turned out to be solid mahogany. Still, it bought him a little more time.

"He got any silver bullets on him?" Bobby asked breathlessly from behind, glancing at John despite the fact he already seemed to know the answer,

"Why would he?" John bit back irritably, "This was supposed to be a salt and burn. It's not even a full moon."

He sounded annoyed – _was_ annoyed – but it wasn't at Bobby, or Dean. It was at himself for underestimating the situation, for placing his son in such a damned stupid, dangerous position. Bobby read him instantly,

"Don't beat yourself up John," he offered with a sigh, one eye sticking fast to the door for any signs of movement, "You…_neither of us_ knew what was going to go down here. I mean, how could we?"

Dean was circling the room quickly, hands rummaging through drawers, pushing papers onto the floor and leaving no stone unturned.

"It's okay," John assured his son quietly, the provision of comfort unavoidable despite the lack of communication between them, "You just got to find something silver. Come on Dean."

Bobby snorted,

"Easier said than done."

The room had obviously once belonged to a senior partner, a Dr. Wilson Parker if the dusty doctorate hanging from the wall was anything to go on. The expensive handcrafted furniture, as well as the plush desk chair and the importance of the paperwork lying around all seemed to indicate the same thing too. Not that the status of the office made any difference to the werewolf, still scrabbling outside and starting to shift the bookcase worryingly.

They all spotted the dentist's drill at the same time, sparkling and ornate in a glass box upon one of the shelves.

"Dean – ,"

But he was already up there without their help, pulling it free of the thick dentistry volumes it was keeping upright and casting quick eyes across the inscription.

_Dr. Parker – In recognition of fifty years service to the dental community. _

How sweet. Without hesitating Dean threw the box to the ground, the glass shattering into pieces around his feet as he wrestled the ornamental drill bit free of its pedestal and twisted it round in the light. It was silver. He was in business.

Quickly he cracked open the shotgun, flipping out the empty shells and loading in another two from his pocket, sliding down the silver drill down in front of them before snapping the weapon shut and stepping back to stand silhouetted in the window. He was only going to get one shot, it needed to be right.

Bobby swallowed,

"Make it count son."

The bookshelf was beginning to shake violently in front of the door, shuddering and starting to crack and break under the strain. The sound of splintering wood told them that the battering had done its work and almost immediately the door burst in off its hinges revealing the werewolf standing tall and snarling, eyes blood red and focused entirely on Dean. The thing seemed possessed. Probably was knowing their luck.

"Holy hell – ,"

Again Bobby and John stepped back, watching Dean standing passively behind the desk, gun aimed but his whole body unmoving. He was waiting and more than that, his entire stance radiated calm energy. He was so in control that for a moment John couldn't help but swell with pride. Still, a lot could go wrong.

Seeing that his prey was not going to move the werewolf growled at him, a strange dog-like noise of irritation as it stepped closer, crouching low for a possible pounce. Dean let it move towards him, step by step reading its body language for any signs of a sudden attack. John watched him closely, mentally talking him through it.

_Not yet…not yet, wait…_

It threw itself forward without almost any warning not expecting the gunshot that rang back at it. John and Bobby both froze, the fur-covered form blotting out what had happened in the split second it mattered. It collapsed instead to its feet, half-slumped over the desk and scrabbling with its paws. As it struggled upwards John and Bobby could see why – the silver drill bit was sticking out from his heart.

Bullseye. Although apparently silver dentistry tools were not as effective as silver bullets, because it was still alive, albeit flagging. Dean stepped up close, ducking a flailing arm and using the shotgun as a club to hammer the stake deeper. The werewolf screamed again but then slumped backwards, drooping down beside the desk and falling to an unmoving heap. It was dead.

"Very good!" As Dean stood panting over the corpse, checking to see if it really was gone, the Trickster appeared behind them, clapping again in ill-concealed delight. He waggled a finger at John, "You know, this boy of yours is turning out to be one of the best I've come across. Nice work dad."

This time John wasn't biting, watching from the corner of his eye as Dean stepped over the creature and back into the centre of the room, kicking aside the broken shelving and clearing the door for himself.

"He's just forgetting one thing though," the trickster added thoughtfully, turning his head towards the older hunters and watching them frown in sudden suspicion. John's gaze darkened,

"What's that?"

"Watch where you're going," and with that the trickster clicked his fingers and the floor splintered beneath Dean's feet, sending him down through the floorboards and into the room below, landing with a thud. As his head bounced clean off the floorboards he fell into the dark abyss of unconsciousness. The Trickster grinned, "Oops."

"Dean!"

Things had just gotten worse.

* * *

Still not won the lottery yet…maybe it would help to buy a ticket! Hmmmm, anyway...


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight.**

The first thing he heard was the crying.

A soft but desperate sound that floated through his subconscious in short staccato bursts, invading the enveloping blackness with the confused but urgent sense that he needed to wake up. He did so grudgingly, emerging into awareness and finding himself momentarily incapable of placing either his location or why he might be there – not that the throbbing in his head helped much.

Letting out a groan through pain-clenched teeth, Dean wrenched open his eyes watching his view of the world slide slowly from a wash of fuzzy images to sharp focus.

He was lying on the floor, stomach pressed against the bare floorboards, head turned to one side and every inch of him aching in a dull protest that was starting to replace the comparatively pleasant oblivion of unconsciousness.

What the hell was he doing lying on the floor?

The sound of faint crying reminded him all too clearly and rolling his eyes upwards he glanced towards the hole in the ceiling that he'd ploughed through, splinters of wood hanging down from it, clouds of dust billowing around him. The house _definitely_ didn't like him.

Gently Dean waggled his toes about in his boots, slowing sliding one leg up across the dusty floor once he was satisfied he could feel them all. With another grunt he pushed himself up onto his knees grasping the shotgun as he went, swinging his head around to take in his new surroundings. He wasn't surprised to find himself staring at yet another virtually empty room, although it was infinitely grander than others he'd been in, with a long wall of intermittent floor to ceiling windows and a hint of parquet flooring underneath the layer of grim. A long table sat conference-like in the middle, a few chairs scattered untidily around it.

The crying seemed to be coming from a wide set of double doors at the end of the room, the kind that were probably designed to be flung open with the words 'Dinner is served,' following behind as finely dressed guests poured in and started cooing over the table decorations, unfortunately for the original architect however, all the doors were going to see now were Dean, or as it turned out not even him because when he got there he found the doors barred with a solid iron chain and padlock – which just about summed up his day.

Abruptly, as if driven by the knowledge that he couldn't get in the crying faded in favour of a petrified scream and the sound of frantic scrabbling. As the door handles began to turn frantically Dean jumped back in surprise, listening as a terror-pitched female voice shouted at him through the woodwork,

"Please!" she begged, the sobs still evident in her voice, "_Please_!"

Pushing aside the thought that the woman was just another creation in the house's long list of oddities, Dean shifted into action-mode, his concerns for the unseen figure rising with it. If she was a genuine victim then it was no wonder she was terrified.

"Stand back!" he yelled, doing the same himself and raising a boot to plant it solidly in the middle of the frame. The doors wobbled but didn't move, the chain rattling tauntingly. Dean grit his teeth in frustration, pulling out the handgun from the back of his jeans and aiming it at the metal. The clang told him he'd hit the mark, but when he opened his eyes the lock still sat firm.

"Damn."

"Please!"

The chain itself was old and part of it looked rusted almost like it was perishing with age, that would have to do and gathering up his anger, Dean again put boot to door, bracing himself against the frame and kicking as if he was expending every last scrap of anger he'd ever felt in his life. The door shuddered underneath him, bucking back and forth with the hits, the chain jingling rhythmically.

Finally he flung himself against it, a yell of exertion bursting out of him as he piled his entire weight against the gap and felt it give way underneath him. The chain snapped clean in two, one end flipping round to clap him across the ankle as the doors blasted inwards, almost depositing him on the matching parquet floor that decorated the other side. He managed to keep his feet, just.

As it turned out the woman was exactly that. A woman. Probably somewhere in her mid to late forties with short blonde hair and a face etched in terror, which was hardly surprising given the semi-circle of ghosts inching towards her, arms outstretched and indistinguishable growls and murmurs coming from each one like a bunch of extras from a bad black and white horror film. Dean loaded in two new salt cartridges with a click, looking up just in time to see one of the ghosts pick the woman up and throw her across the room into a wall, her scream of fright cutting out as her head bounced off the wall and she fell into silence. The place could have been called Concussion Hall.

"Hey!" he yelled, the single syllable echoing in off the walls and drawing the attention of the gathered apparitions. Luckily for him they all seemed to have their own teeth. That was a definite bonus, "Come and get it."

They responded at once, some starting a slow agonised shuffle in his direction, more still vanishing into thin air. The first appeared behind him a second later, Dean's instincts the only thing giving him a heads up. He spun instantly, blowing a hole in the spirit's stomach and watching it disappear. What followed afterwards was such strongly entrenched standard procedure that Dean barely registered he was doing it – two more rounds in, lock and load. He turned again, spinning into the face of another spook and going through the motions again. Another to his side. Done. One more behind. Dusted, and then suddenly the shufflers were almost on him and it was a case of taking them one by one and keeping one step away. They seemed relentless and all around him others flashed in and out of the scene. It was only going to be a matter of time before he ran out of ammunition but still they kept coming.

"Damn it!" he growled in frustration, fumbling the final cartridges about in his fingers, "How many of you sons of bitches are there?"

He fired off the final round at a distance, the remaining ghost standing back from him, apparently biding its time. The shot clipped him but unlike the others he continued to stand, casting lazily at the tear across his shoulder before raising cold hard eyes to stare at Dean.

"Just one," came the eerily even reply, so calm that Dean suddenly realised what he was staring at was not a ghost at all and was in fact the new threat in a seemingly unending line of danger. This time it was a person, which meant shooting was pretty much of limits. He might have been many things, but a cold blooded killer wasn't one of them.

"Hey man – ," he started uncertainly, trying to broker some sort of peace in the vague hope that the newcomer was an ally rather than an obstacle. A raised hand cut him off abruptly.

"You ready to die boy?"

It was a strange question and hardly one that merited an answer, although in its own way it did manage to provide one. Definitely _not_an ally, although why in the hell did everything dangerous about the house act like a scene from a bad movie? Something had to be screwing with him. Before he got the chance to ask however the burly man was suddenly hurling himself across the distance between them with his fist swinging wildly. Dean was barely able to step away before the knuckles caught him on the jaw, piling him backwards into the door. He ducked to the side as the man came again, letting him drive the punch into the door frame and listening with grim satisfaction to the hiss of pain.

If it was a fight the man wanted it was a fight he was going to get, starting with a quick jab to the ribs. The second the man managed to catch, using the force to send himself backwards a few paces out of the firing line. Dean frowned at him,

"What the hell man? Who are you?"

The werewolf? The boulder? The disappearing stairs? Yeah, they'd all been weird, but the appearance of two actual people in amongst all the crazy – one of whom wanted to knock seven bells out of him – was just plain strange. As, apparently, was the his opponent's way of talking,

"Think you're a good hunter? The best, huh?" he challenged instead of answering, causing another frown of confusion to slide across Dean's face as his brow crumpled in utter confusion.

"Wait. _You're_ a hunter?" It certainly wasn't Clyde, which begged the question why in the hell were there so many hunters swarming around the place and why weren't his father and Bobby among them, "Well, look, we're on the same side here. So why don't we just – ,"

The sudden launch towards him again told Dean that there was going to be no ceasefire and although he had no idea what the two of them could possibly be fighting about, he wasn't exactly going to let himself get pummelled, so he stepped forward catching the swinging arm and blocking the hit, which gave him a split second of victory before the other fist caught him across the face again and the guy squared up for another. Dean kicked out, one hand still holding the man's sleeve and letting the heel of his boot crack into the back of the kneecap. The brief moment off instability it caused was enough to give him the upper hand again and he attacked the face with punches, ignoring the tingling sensation starting to prick the skin around his eye – that was going to need icing if he wanted to be able to see enough to drive away from the place later.

A sudden fist to the gut doubled him over and suddenly the guy had arms around him, tipping them both off balance until they tumbled to the ground in a heap of punches and jabs, rolling across the dusty floor until it was billowing up around the fight and making them both cough. Dean was fighting hard, but then so was the other guy. It was a dead but brutal heat.

That was until Dean saw the ghosts, starting to reappear around the edges of the room, looking inwards and obviously waiting for their moment to creep in a pick at the spoils. Abruptly his temper erupted. He was pissed, if he wasn't dealing with one kind of shit it was another, he was tired, beat up, bruised and he _still_ had to find his dad and Bobby, not to mention his having run out of salt shells. He'd had enough.

He started by flipping over Rocky Balboa – still trading punches across the dusty parquet tiles – and slapping aside the hands. Then he grabbed up balls of the guy's jacket, ignoring the jabs that still landed on him, feeling nothing but the growing rage. As he snapped, he lifted the man clean up off the floor and slammed his head backwards into ground, over and over and over with a ruthlessness that eclipsed everything else and only started to fade as he watched his opponent slip into unconsciousness. One down, however the hell many left to go. As the adrenaline continued to pump with ungodly force around his body, he staggered to his feet, casting around at the few waiting ghosts, eyes willing one of them to make the first move. Casting around he spotted an iron poker still propped against the fireplace and he crossed the distance quickly, hefting it up into his hands and feeling the weight and balance against his palm before turning back. He was ready.

The first flicker beside him was met by a swipe, as was the next and the three after that. Dean was a man possessed, clearing house one by one. The ghost that grabbed him around the neck from behind earned only a backwards jab with the poker before disappearing. Another was advancing for the prone woman, still lying propped against the wall out for the count and as the immediate danger switched from him to her, Dean lifted the poker, holding it javelin-like and launching it across the room. It sailed straight through the ghost and obliterated it, leaving the room in silence except for Dean's heavy panting. He was spoiling for more, arms outstretched, head tipped up towards the ceiling.

"Come on!"

Nothing. No ghosts, no werewolves, no Raiders of the Lost Ark, no crumbling masonry. It was like nothing had ever happened there at all. Even the crazed hunters' body was gone, leaving only Dean and the woman, who moaned softly in the background, drawing his attention and quelling the surge of adrenaline.

Apparently the house was done with him.

* * *

Annnnd breathe...

Well, I might not have won the lottery but I do have a job offer from my uncle on the table now! Problem is when it's suddenly something of a reality the thought of leaving my current job is kinda scary...AHHHHH! Thank God I've got my writing to pour myself into!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine.**

John had watched the fight in silent awe, a mixture of pride and surprise welling within him as he'd watched his son take apart everything that had fallen in his way. The ferocity had almost scared him, scared him in that he saw a lifetime's worth of anger thrown into each punch, kick and jab, the combined stresses of death, upheaval and pressure released in five minutes of brutality. The truth was Dean knew some moves that John hadn't even taught him, possessed a rage he couldn't match and had stunned both he and Bobby into respectful silence.

It had been when the ghosts had appeared mid-fist fight that John had finally felt himself snap – ironically enough at virtually the same moment as his son – the anger at being dragged around by some crazed and constantly smiling demigod whilst watching Dean jump through hoop after hoop finally building to a head and exploding.

"That's enough!"

His bellow had been loud enough to make Bobby jump and even the Trickster standing a little way off with arms folded across his chest and a smirk on his face had turned a surprised face towards him.

"What?" he'd asked teasingly, "Too much?"

"Stop it," he'd replied, eyes making a silent promise that when the time came he would kill their tormentor himself, "Right now."

"Not enjoying the show anymore dad?" the Trickster had asked teasingly as the fight had ramped up a notch drawing them all into watchful silence. When the still dental-clad Trickster had spoken again he'd sounded mildly impressed, "Kid's like an animal. He get that from you?"

"What does it matter?" John snapped back irritably as the wave of ghosts continued to pour towards his son. True, Dean was fighting like a man possessed – which in their line of work was not always a good thing – but even he had to have a breaking point, John needed to get him out before he found it, "He's proved himself hasn't he?"

"Proven himself to who?" the Trickster had asked intrigued. John's gaze narrowed on instinct,

"He _never_ needed to prove himself to me,"

"Is that right?" As his fingers snapped, loud in the silence, the ghosts suddenly disappeared, the final earning a poker in the chest for his troubles as the fight seemingly came to a close. The Trickster's tone sounded tauntingly knowing in the silence, "Well that's not what it looked like to me."

"And since when do you know anything about my family?" It was challenge, fierce and protective and Bobby had to place a firm hold on John's sleeve to stop the anger from boiling over.

"You'd be surprised by what I know. Youngest son miles away from home – ,"

"Leave Sam out of this."

" – Oldest son trying to break away too. They're all leaving you John."

And whether he liked to admit it or not, the damn thing had got his problem in a nutshell. They were all leaving him, not forever in Dean's case, just for a short period at a time, no different from what he'd been doing their whole childhood but that had been his choice, having to let go was entirely different.

Behind them, Dean was moving across the room closing the distance between himself and the slowly awakening woman. The Trickster turned his attention back quietly, watching the scene with curiosity.

"The final test."

Dean dropped to a crouch beside her, one hand gently reaching up to brush some of the hair from the woman's face. She blinked up in a daze, eyes widening in fright and Dean was quick to hold up a hand, dropping the other comfortingly onto her shoulder,

"It's okay," he offered gently, smiling a little, "You're okay. I'm here to help," he paused as she slowly took him in, letting his relaxed posture and warm expression do most of the work. As she struggled to sit up he took her weight, drawing her into a sitting position and watching her lower a palm onto the back of her head with a wince, "Let's get you out of here."

Bobby turned back towards the Trickster slowly, face a frown of confusion,

"_That's_ the final test?"

He half expected the woman to turn into a ghost, or suddenly fling him across the room but apparently she was the genuine article, letting Dean slowly help her to her feet holding her virtually upright as they began to shuffle from the room.

The Trickster stayed quiet, simply watching with the scene with a half-smile still bordering on a smirk but at least a more genuine expression than either of them had seen since the whole crazy thing had begun.

"Humanity," John filled in quietly.

After all as dangerous as the Trickster was in terms of power he'd already exposed himself as something of an ironically chivalrous character by admitting his punishment of Clyde was as much about his treatment of his pick-up as it was luring them there. Dean therefore had and was passing the final test with flying colours.

"Well," sighed the Trickster, clapping his hands together and suddenly all light-heartedness again, "Congratulations. The kid's passed his graduation, he's now ready to go on out into the big bad world of hunting…but," he quirked a brow at John, "…apparently you already knew that. Gramps," he tipped an imaginary salute at Bobby, "…been a blast."

"You not staying?" the older hunter shot back sarcastically,

"What? And let you come back for round two?" he snorted, his tone carrying hints of _you think I'm suicidal_? If he knew anything, then apparently he knew hunters. He shrugged casually, the smirk reappearing, "But maybe you and I'll run into each other again,"

"I hope not."

The sentence drew another smile and in the split second it took for Bobby to blink, he and John found themselves back in the black and white tiled hallway again, the place where it had all started. For a moment neither of them spoke and then Bobby felt the abrupt need to break the awkward silence,

"That it?"

"I guess so," John sighed, sounding exhausted himself,

"All that to get you to realise that Dean was ready to go off on his own?"

"You know Tricksters Bobby," came the despondent shrug, "They take people down a peg or two, don't like guys that throw their weight around. Recently…" he snorted dryly as he realised he could amend that sentence by a decade or two, "…that's been me. You were right. Dean's ready."

A gently but conciliatory pat on the back provided him with some solidarity,

"Don't be too hard on yourself John. Hell, I know it ain't easy, but you've done a mighty fine job on those boys both. Whatever they end up doing, they're gonna be fine."

God willing.

A creak on the stairs above them drew both men's attention and they watched with matching sighs of relief as Dean appeared out onto the first floor landing with his arms wrapped carefully around the woman, inching her down the steps. As much as it had hurt him falling from second floor to first directly through the damn floorboards, it had at least made the question of how to get past the demolished part of the staircase obsolete.

"Dean?"

The voice made him pause for a second, head snapping round towards the entrance hall before eyes widened in amazement and relief,

"Dad? Bobby?"

"We're here kid," Bobby offered as cheerily as he could manage but still sounding exhausted. Dean didn't answer him, concentrating on getting the woman down without falling and saving further questions until she was safely away from earshot. Bobby moved forward to help instantly, figuring father and son had some talking to do, "Here," he offered gently, holding out an arm to take the woman's weight and lead her from the house, her hand sinking into his acceptingly. He shared a quick look with John as he passed, a silent reminder, _he's okay_, which strangely enough was Dean's first question as he sped across the tiles towards his father.

"You okay?" he panted breathlessly, grabbing John by the shoulder of his jacket as if checking he was really there. John smiled despite himself, stifling a sudden laugh of relief,

"Yeah," he nodded, "We're okay."

"Where the hell were you?"

"It's a long story."

Quietly John raised a hand, tilting Dean's head back and getting a better look at the black eye. It was going to be a hell of a shiner, and that was before he even mentioned the bump already beginning to swell at the back of Dean's hairline. The kid was battered and bruised but apparently he neither noticed nor cared, eyes still narrowed in concern at his father.

"You sure you're okay dad?"

"Yeah Dean, I'm okay."

His son nodded slowly, still seeming a little unconvinced.

"What about the…" he paused, struggling to find the right words and mentally discarding others as he went, _werewolf, giant boulder, hunter_, "…ghost."

"Oh don't worry about that," John assured him, eyes flickering around the hallway as he spoke almost as if he expected to see something above them. Dean could see nothing, "I think he's moved on."

His father definitely knew more than he was letting on, but Dean was far too weary to ask. He just wanted to get going – preferably to somewhere that sold hot and very unhealthy food.

"Good. So can we get out of here now?"

Grinning, John lowered a careful arm across Dean's shoulders, as much to keep him close as to stop him from getting into any more trouble. He wasn't by nature much of a touchy-feely person – life had taught the hard way not to be – but suddenly he couldn't deny the pleasure of the closeness, the comfort and knowledge that came with feeling the battered leather jacket underneath his fingers.

He had to let go.

"Great idea."

His son was no longer a boy. He was a man and more than that, he was ready.

* * *

One more to go and then we're done. In reality I could have strung this out for much longer but I was missing Sam and wasn't sure it was good enough to merit more chaos so I decided to draw it to a close – Dean's had enough drama for one day!

(I know, I know. Cop out, much?)


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten.**

They'd spent the night at Bobby's in favour of a motel, Dean spread across the sofa with his eyes closed and a pack of ice pressed to his face, Bobby trawling through his vast library of the supernatural for mythology on tricksters and John sitting quietly, staring off into space.

"You don't want to go after this thing?" Bobby had asked in quiet incredulousness, both men making sure that Dean was asleep before continuing their talk. Despite knowing something had gone on back at the house Dean had yet to properly ask, although as with almost everything else they knew it was only a matter of time before he did.

John had sighed,

"Bobby – ," the truth was John wanted to rip the thing to shreds for putting Dean through what it had, for the being the cause of even the tiniest bruise on his son, but at the same time John had to admit it had given him one hell of an opportunity. Dean was a capable hunter, he'd known that – it had practically been his life's work – but he'd always seen his eldest son as his back up, the steady pair of hands behind his. The chance to see Dean on his own had been in many ways a terrible blessing and as the hours had rolled by John had begun to feel like a burden was being lifted from his shoulders. Now was _his_ chance to do what he'd always said he was going to. Now was his moment to dedicate himself fully to the hunt for the yellow-eyed demon, which for just over twenty years had sat buried beneath fatherhood and hunting, calling out to him for retribution.

He had nothing else he could teach his sons. They no longer needed him.

"You going to give him the banshee case?" Bobby had asked instead, interpreting the silence. He knew John well enough to know what he was thinking, knew the voracity with which he read reports of nursery fires, the obsessiveness that lead him to link them and track them. Ever since Mary Winchester had died John had been preparing himself for the final battle with her killer. With Dean heading off on his own he would finally get that chance. Maybe he would wait a month, maybe he would wait a year, but one day John Winchester was going to disappear.

"Yeah," had come the reply, low and weary as John turned his head to take in his sleeping son, wondering just when the years had started to fly by so quickly and at what point Dean had stopped being a child and turned into the man lying before him. Probably sooner than was right – that was almost a given. No wonder Sam had started to rebel too, that boy had been watching Dean his whole life and his mutiny was probably as much on his older brother's behalf as his own. It was probably also why Dean had refused to take sides and why he'd continued to be his brother's keeper even throughout the fiercest of the arguments. John had sighed heavily, shaking his head in disbelief, "When did I get to be so blind Bobby?"

There had been no answer, only words of comfort.

"You love those boys and no matter what they say, they love you. You've always done your best for them John, no one could ask for anything more."

But they were hollow words when he knew that his best hadn't always been good enough. Sometimes it had been nowhere near and yet there lay Dean, still with him. For a little while longer at least.

"You got the girl back home?" John had asked absently in the silence, suddenly remembering the shaken blonde from earlier in the day, the final hurdle that had apparently been Dean's finest hour. Bobby had nodded,

"Yep, if you could call it that."

"What do you mean?"

"Only wanted me to see her as far as the lawn, wouldn't go inside 'til I'd left. She said she was posting leaflets for some neighbourhood church group, what's why she was at the house, only I didn't see any pamphlets inside and let's face it, we were in that damn entrance hall a bunch of times."

That much was undeniable. John had looked at him,

"Trickster?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," A flash of annoyance had followed, "Some day I'm going to get that son of a bitch, you mark my words."

John had smiled wearily,

"Consider then marked."

"And I suppose I'd better tell someone about Clyde, although what that damn thing did to him is anyone's guess. Looks like we got off lucky."

"For now."

Bobby hadn't been listening,

"What in the hell was Clyde thinking anyway? Taking some girl on a hunt with him? I'd have half a mind to kill him myself if I'd known that…"

It had taken another five minutes and then John had fallen asleep in sympathy with his son, Bobby's grumpy mutterings still audible over the crackle of the comfortingly warm fire. In the morning he was going to have to let Dean go, but for the first time in his life the thought was mixed with a fragment of hope instead of blind fear.

It would be fine, which was what he was still telling himself the next morning as he watched Dean checking through the inventory in his trunk, still unaware that his own independence was imminent.

John and Bobby stood on the porch, talking quietly, the older hunter holding a handful in notes in one hand.

"Hey Dean?" John called after a brief pause, beckoning his son over with a tilt of his head and watching him comply instantly, "Bobby's got a new hunt,"

"Banshee. Minnesota."

Dean took the notes quietly, eyes skimming over the details before nodding slowly,

"Real nasty critters," Bobby continued from beside him, "But easy enough to get rid of in the right hands."

He exchanged a look with John, the move not going unnoticed by Dean.

"O-kay," he offered slowly, eyes flicking between them, "Why do I get the feeling there's more to this than you're telling me?"

"It's a straight forward case son," Bobby replied instead, neither answering nor denying his question. Dean sighed heavily, realising that whatever the secret was, it was going to remain unspoken for a while longer.

"Fine," he turned to John brightly, folding the papers and tucking them into his jacket, "We heading there now? Because I could really do with a burger before I kill anything else."

"That's up to you," John replied cryptically as Dean slammed down the lid of the trunk, hands resting on the bodywork as he frowned in confusion at the two men standing before him,

"What's going on here?" he asked in bemusement, "You doing a two-man tribute to the Riddler or something?"

Picking up his few belongings, Dean hauled them onto the backseat of the Impala, turning in continued bewilderment to watch as his father stood seemingly glued to Bobby's front porch.

"Dad, you coming?"

"Not this time."

"What?" He'd heard all right but for a moment he wasn't sure he had because what it very much sounded like was that he was getting his own job, which couldn't possibly be true since just the day before they'd had a blazing row about the very same thing and the subsequent impossibility of it happening. It also begged another question. Just what the hell had happened in that house? "You're…not coming?"

"No."

Dean was still struggling,

"So that means – ,"

"Oh for God's sake boy!" Bobby interrupted with an infuriated smile, "You're getting your own damn job all right? Now get out of here and do it before the thing gets bored of waiting to be killed."

Abruptly the grin that had been threatening to form on John's face broke out across it and he laughed, throwing in a shake of his head for good measure. Those two…

"Dad?"

Dean was looking at him, asking for permission, looking for the order to be released. John nodded.

"Go on son,"

The pride that swelled across Dean's face was like he'd been given a thousand Christmas' at once, only he wasn't a kid anymore and his own sense of pride didn't even amount to a fraction of what John felt. Dean nodded once, a formal acceptance of his task, eyes shining with excitement.

"Yes sir."

As he climbed into the driver's seat John almost shouted _don't let me down_ after him, before abruptly realising that even in the unlikely event of Dean failing he could never let him down.

"Any problems you phone okay?" Bobby was yelling through the closed window, stepping towards the car with an apparently last minute list of instructions, "In fact you phone me problems or not. I don't hear anything from you I'm going to come down there and kick your ass myself, y'hear?"

Dean was grinning through the window, starting up the engine and miming in exaggerated terms that he couldn't hear a word the older hunter was yelling.

"Boy – ," Bobby growled, only getting within a hand's reach of the car before Dean threw it into reverse and slid out of grasping-range.

As he drove away from them Dean offered back one last look, earning a confident nod from John. He was going to be fine, it was no longer just a mantra it was the truth. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he'd finally done the right thing for both of his sons even though each decision had half-killed him at the time.

Sighing angrily Bobby came to stand beside him, shaking his head at the disappearing car and one last reminder on his lips,

"And don't fall through any damn porches either you idjit!"

Yeah, Dean was going to be just fine.

* * *

Well there you go, happy endings all round!

If anyone's been keeping up with this I'd love to know what you thought and to everyone that has already reviewed you've been lovely and I've appreciated every single comment – as always!

Back to business with the two boys again in the next few days, so look out for that. In the meantime, peace out everybody and happy readings!


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